


Inktober - Tommy/Alfie Drabble Edition

by boundinshallows (museme87)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: (of a sort), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Federal Agents, Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Fisting, Arguing, Awkward First Times, Babies, Bad Sex, Bottom Alfie, Break Up, Canonical Character Death, Crossdressing, Curtain Fic, Dark fic, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Drinking to Cope, Drunken Confessions, Established Relationship, Estranged Marriage, Family Dynamics, Family Fluff, First Meetings, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fisting, Gender or Sex Swap, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Infidelity, Injury, Light BDSM, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Marriage Proposal, Married Couple, Married Life, Meet the Family, Meet-Cute, Meeting the Parents, Middle Aged Ship, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Injuries, Morally Ambiguous Character, Negotiations, Parents, Past Mpreg, Period-Typical Sexism, Pets, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Coital Cuddling, Pregnancy, References to Illness, Sharing a Bed, Sick Character, Sickfic, Slice of Life, Stranger Sex, Tender Sex, Tommy Shelby isn't a great father but what else is new, Top Alfie, Top Tommy, Topping from the Bottom, Undercover Missions, Voyeurism, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, bottom tommy, girl!Tommy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2020-11-28 01:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 14,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20957966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/pseuds/boundinshallows
Summary: A series of Tommy/Alfie drabbles based on 2019 Inktober prompts. Each chapter is a standalone fic unless noted otherwise. Tags updated as I go along.





	1. Day 1 - Ring

**Author's Note:**

> Drabbles are 150 words long instead of 50. I also started a bit late, but I need a side project like this for the sake of my sanity. So there you have it, folks!

“I’m not fucking marrying you,” Tommy growls, throwing the box across the room.

Alfie turns the newspaper page. “Right, well, ‘s good thing I didn’t ask then, innit?”

“Alfie, I’m serious.”

“That, there?” he says, gesturing dismissively without raising his eyes. “‘s just a box. You’re getting yourself all worked up over a little scrap of metal that don’t mean a thing.”

“Alfie.”

“Not a thing.”

~*~*~

The row that it sparks lasts months, nearly ending them twice. It’s only after totaling his sportscar that Tommy’s anger burns out.

The makeup sex is a thing of beauty. 

Occasionally, Tommy tries on the ring that had found its way back into Alfie’s bedside table, wondering if it'd always feel so weighty. 

When he shows up late to dinner with it still on one night, Alfie raises a brow.

For some inexplicable reason, they both take Tommy’s muttered “fuck off” as a yes.


	2. Day 2 - Mindless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 2 - Mindless

His fingers skim mindlessly across Tommy’s sweat-slicked shoulders. Those bewitching blue eyes of his are shut, the sharp edges of his face softening as he relaxes into post-orgasm haze.

Alfie doesn’t linger long on the feeling of Tommy curled hot and sticky against his side, Tommy’s arm thrown over his middle and face pillowed on his chest. Or if he _does_, Alfie doesn’t let himself read into it. No good can come of this. That much is plain as fucking day.

“Last time,” Tommy mumbles, sleepy and content.

“Of course.”

“I mean it this time.”

Tommy says it like a man who doesn’t.

“I know, mate.”

His hand slips down Tommy’s back, his fingers dipping between Tommy’s cheeks. He feels his seed dripping out of him. Alfie presses his thumb against Tommy, pushing his come back inside. The movement has Tommy moaning and pressing a hard kiss into his shoulder.


	3. Day 3 - Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 3 - Bait

They’ve been staring at each other in silence for nearly a minute, neither prepared to concede terms on the new shipment contract. Tommy’s annoyed; Alfie’s unwillingness to negotiate today seems to be serious rather than an attempt to play coy. And that just won’t do. 

Tommy’s anticipated this though because, no matter what they get up to behind closed doors, he’s still dealing with Alfie Solomons.

Standing, Tommy places a package on Alfie’s desk.

“What’s this then?”

He takes a drag on his cigarette, gesturing to the gift. 

“Open it.” 

Alfie sits upright and unwraps the package as if it were a bomb. Tommy grins, knowing that Alfie would be far less fucked if it were. 

Alfie’s fingers trail along fine silk before he looks up at Tommy, heated. 

“Dinner at half six. You should bring that along, eh? In case the new terms you offer are more fucking agreeable.”


	4. Day 4 - Freeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 4 - Freeze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is 300 words because I couldn't stop myself.

He feels the first pang of regret as he watches her approach the table, twenty minutes late and dressed to kill. She _would_ wear the Louboutin peep-toes, the ones she let him fuck her in not two months ago. Alfie shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his eyes dragging over her body poured into that little lace dress that conceals very little. He’d like to take it off her with his teeth.

When Tommi reaches the chair, Alfie finds himself standing to pull it out for her. She sits, a smirk tugging at her red, red lips. He’s shown his fucking hand with that one, hasn’t he? And yet the faint scent of Chanel he catches as she draws her hair over her shoulder makes it almost worth it. It brings to mind long nights spent with his head between her thighs.

“You double-crossed me. Again.”

“That I did, love.”

He braces himself for the splash of her drink or her fist in his face—and, Christ, does she have a mean right hook—but Tommi lazily sips her gin instead. It’s a surprise, then, when he feels her frigid toes against his ankle, stroking his skin. Up she slides her foot, further and further until she finds his half-hard cock. Alfie holds his breath, simultaneously wanting her touch and dreading his suddenly vulnerable position.

“You shouldn’t have fucking done that,” she says, staring him down.

Alfie shrugs. What else can he fucking say? Business is business. Judging from the look he’s getting, he thinks there’s a lesson to be learned here about dipping his quill in the company ink. But Alfie can’t bring himself to care. Six months with Tommi Shelby—buried in her, waking next to her—makes his tattered, blood-soaked life seem like a small price to pay.


	5. Day 5 - Build

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 5 - Build

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apparently make my own rules about word count now. So much for consistency.

He knew—fucking _knew_—that he shouldn’t have risked it tonight, what with the tell-tale twinge in his lower back all day. But no man, at least not one in his right fucking mind, can resist Tommy’s heated gaze. Not with the way his blue eyes dance, the way he draws his teeth over his lower lip, the way his long, long lashes eventually kiss his cheeks. It’s Tommy’s fuck-me look. Well, lately it’s been his let-me-ride-you-until-we-both-forget-our-names look, but Alfie supposes it’s all the same, innit?

And all that, right, is how he finds himself in this fucking predicament. Because when Tommy’s riding him, he takes and takes and fucking _takes_, which is fine—it’s _always_ fine, more than, actually—but sometimes it wrecks his back.

It must show on his face when he sits up to gather his clothes because Tommy touches his arm far too lightly.

“Alfie.”

“Hmm,” he says, easing himself to the edge of the bed.

Tommy’s touch isn’t so gentle the second time.

“_Alfie_.”

He looks over his shoulder to find Tommy’s expression unreadable. No, not _unreadable_, but unfamiliar, improbable. Because this fragile little agreement they’ve built over months has never allowed for _that_ though Alfie might have hoped for it once or twice.

Tommy’s gaze is steady, _sure_, when he flexes his fingers around Alfie’s arm and whispers, “Stay.”


	6. Day 6 - Husky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 6 - Husky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this one, the rating goes up.

“_Six fucking weeks_,” Tommy hisses. “Christ, Alfie…can’t fucking _believe_…how do you expect me to…_oh_…”

_Like this, love_, Alfie thinks, his attention rapt at the sight of Tommy on the other end of the video call. He can almost feel the arch of Tommy’s back under his hands like touch-memory, can almost feel the ghostly weight of Tommy as Tommy shoves his arse towards him to touch and lick and _take_.

“Could _murder_ you for leaving me…” Tommy whines, his voice husky.

“Might do it myself if you keep this up.”

“_Alfie_.”

The thing is, Tommy isn’t usually chatty when they’re fucking with a few notable exceptions. And as it happens, one of those exceptions is when Tommy has a vibrator shoved in him, which Alfie had been very pleased to discover Tommy _did_ when he answered Tommy’s call.

"What is it you want?”

Alfie watches as Tommy’s ass twitches greedily around the vibrator.

“Your fucking…_cock_, alright?” Tommy pants.

Alfie palms himself through his trousers, nearly wrecked.

“Want it…_fuck_…want it hard. Buried in deep” he says, pushing the vibrator in just a little further. “Want you bare.”

And it’s that little confession that makes Alfie’s heart stop and cock spill.


	7. Day 7 - Enchanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 7 - Enchanted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble is actually from a much longer smut fic that I plan to post sometime next month (when I actually have the time to finish it).

As Tommy slowly takes his cock, Alfie can’t help but feel his senses dull, all except his sight. Because Tommy, he’s a goddamn vision, staring down at him with those big, blue eyes. His gaze is steady, _clear_, like Tommy’s laying himself bare tonight. And Alfie might have a mind to care if he weren’t drowning.

“The things they say about your people, Tommy,” he whispers, breaking eye contact only to press a hard kiss to Tommy’s shoulder when he sinks down into his lap completely. “Don’t believe half of it. But Christ, if you don’t have some witchcraft in those eyes of yours…The things they make me want to do…” 

Tommy shudders and clenches around him as Alfie thrusts up, biting his lip when Alfie shifts his hips forward with a firm hand on the small of his back.

“Not witchcraft,” Tommy whispers. “Just taking what you want.”

“The devil’s hand is in letting myself have the things I want, sweetheart.”

“Mm,” Tommy sighs, “blackest magic, that.”

And a roll of his hips has Tommy’s eyes fluttering shut, long lashes resting on pale skin. Then they find it—the angle that has Tommy a keening mess in his arms.


	8. Day 8 - Frail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 8 - Frail

“This is an awful idea.”

“Yeaahh, so I’ve been told,” Alfie says with a shrug. “And yet.”

Tommy inhales another lungful of smoke, blowing it out the window like it’s going to make a damn bit of difference. Alfie’s car has started to stink from Tommy’s little nicotine habit, but he’s not about to have that argument _again_, right, not in the middle of this fucking car park on a day like today.

“Look, mate. She’s going to adore you.”

Tommy rolls his eyes and gives Alfie the _look_, unamused and unconvinced.

“Mothers don’t love me, Alfie. Hard to imagine, eh? Might be the long criminal history.”

Alfie pinches the bridge of his nose. They’ve been having this conversation for fucking _months_ now. Alfie knows that Tommy is just trying to wear him down, right, until he just gives the fuck in so Tommy doesn’t have to hear this little song and dance any fucking longer. But it never worked when they were just business partners, so Alfie doesn’t know why the hell Tommy still thinks—two years into their whatever-the-fuck—that it’ll work now.

“She’s fucking dying, Tom,” he snaps. “So whether she likes you or she don’t isn’t going to fucking matter during the high holy days, right. Not one fucking bit. Probably because she’ll be underground by that point. So get your tight little arse in there and do me the giant fucking favor of meeting my mum sometime before we’re sitting shiva for her, alright?”

To his credit, Tommy does look a little guilty, but Alfie’s finding it increasingly difficult to give a shit. He turns off the ignition, reaches for his wallet and phone, and opens the car door in a rush. The slam that follows echoes loudly in his ears, leaving Tommy’s reply indiscernible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. - Alfie's sweet elderly mum does, indeed, adore "Alfie's young man."


	9. Day 9 - Swing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 9 - Swing

“It worked,” Tommy says, amazed.

Alfie groans, rubbing his hands over his face. “Why didn’t we assemble the fucking thing before now?”

When he finally gets his heavy eyelids to open, Alfie glances up again to find their newborn son still sleeping soundly for what feels like the first time since he came home. And all it fucking took was that damn automated swing Ada had gifted them months ago.

“I _tried_—”

“Had no fucking business—”

Tommy holds up his hand. “Let’s not ruin this, eh. Come here.”

In his sleep deprived state, it takes Alfie a moment to get his legs functioning, but he manages to push himself off the floor and join Tommy on the sofa. Alfie looks at him; he’s never seen Tommy in such a state—stained shirt, scruffy cheeks, bruising under the eyes. Alfie’s so tired that he can hardly bite back the laugh that follows.

“What?”

He shakes his head, bringing his hand to his mouth to try to muffle his laughter. But when he realizes it’s a futile effort, he reaches out to run his thumb along Tommy’s cheekbone.

“You’re a fucking mess is what.”

Tommy snorts—fucking _snorts_—and grins just a little, inclining his head in Alfie’s direction. “Like you’re a fucking catch right now.”

“Oh I am.”

“That right?”

Alfie leans in and cages Tommy between his arms, pressing a trail of kisses from his forehead to his lips. He’s content to just kiss for a while, having not been physical with Tommy since before Charlie came along. And they’re not great at it, an uncoordinated mess from exhaustion, but it’s _nice_ regardless.


	10. Day 10 - Pattern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 10 - Pattern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, sometime last week folks on Tumblr were wondering why fics rarely portray Tommy on top. And I've never been one to back down from subverting fandom tropes, so here's a thing.

When Tommy leans down to capture his mouth, Alfie can taste his bitter seed on Tommy’s tongue. He licks and hums contently, bringing one callused hand to the back of Tommy’s neck and gripping him there, hard. The movement has Tommy bucking his hips into the air, seeking friction where there is none. And that’s Tom, isn’t it? Ever-so-fucking-predictable in what he likes—someone to manhandle him, to tell him what he can and can’t fucking have.

But Alfie? Alfie appreciates a little unpredictability sometimes. So when Tommy takes Alfie’s hand and guides it to his hard cock, Alfie pulls his hand away. Tommy draws back slightly, brow knit in confusion, and takes Alfie’s hand into his again. Again, Alfie evades. By the third time, Tommy’s grip is ruthless, his displeasure writ clear in that frown of his. 

Alfie smirks; Tommy should fucking know better.

For all Tommy’s strength, Alfie is still stronger and easily captures Tommy’s wrist. He leads Tommy low between his spread legs. Tommy’s brow shoots up as Alfie presses their fingers together against furled muscle.

“You want…?”

Alfie can’t help but roll his eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know, mate,” he sighs, feigning disinterestedness. “Just thought I’d give you a bit of a touch, didn’t I? In case you were curious what it felt like.”

“Fuck off,” Tommy says, and Alfie can tell that Tommy knows he’s just taking the piss now. “I know what it feels like.”

“Well then.” And both Alfie’s tone and gaze turn heated. “Why don’t you put some of that experience to good use? Show us what you’ve got?”

To his credit, Tommy hardly lets the expression cross his face, but Alfie has always been fucking observant. He’s managed to unsteady Tommy, and the thought has his insides squirming pleasantly. There’s little Alfie loves more than seizing control of the reins Tommy hands him so freely once they step into a bedroom. Judging from the way his mouth pulls thoughtfully, Alfie senses that Tommy thinks he’s relinquished them back to him, but Alfie knows better.

Alfie sits up, bringing his mouth to Tommy’s ear. “I’d like you to put that pretty cock of yours up my arse. And I won’t ask as nicely the second time.” 


	11. Day 11 - Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 11 - Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up that this chapter vaguely mentions some underage sex work that happened in the past. Everything happening in the fic is happening between young folks who are old enough to consent.

He’s warm tucked under Alfie’s arm as they exit the shitty pub into the night. And it’s a _good_ night. Tommy is still learning about all this gang business, but he knows enough that Alfie taking seven blocks from some guy named Rubashkin is a big deal. Alfie’s _young_, but he already has the attention of men like Sabini. It makes Tommy stupidly proud to be his boyfriend.

Tommy tugs Alfie by the hand and pushes him up against the brick of the dark alley. Alfie smirks, leaning down to kiss his cold nose.

“Can I?” Tommy asks, bringing his fingers to the zip of Alfie’s trousers.

Alfie laughs. “You don’t need to ask. Answer ‘s always yes.”

Tommy frowns at that. The answer _hadn’t_ always been _always yes_. Alfie had barely touched him when he’d first picked him up off the street.

“_You_ always ask _me_.”

“Well, that’s different, innit?”

Tommy doesn’t understand that—sometimes he doesn’t understand a lot of what Alfie says, and he doesn’t think he’s alone there—but he lets it go. They’re supposed to be celebrating.

Sinking to his knees, Tommy makes quick work of Alfie’s trousers. The snow seeps into his own as he draws Alfie out. Once he wouldn’t have even registered it; he’d spent _a lot_ of time in this position before Alfie. But ever since Alfie had brought him home, things that were once normal had become strange again.

Tommy takes Alfie into his mouth now, his body shivering from the sound of Alfie’s swallowed moan. He feels Alfie’s hands come to the back of his neck, cradling him as if he were something precious.


	12. Day 12 - Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 12 - Dragon

If the sake does its trick, he’ll be halfway to forgetting this whole fucking night soon. And what the sake doesn’t help him forget, the not inconsiderable amount of whisky in his hotel room ought to remedy.

He won’t remember this whole fucking mess of a blind date that Ada put him up to or the text that came forty minutes after he was meant to meet this Jessie Eden person. From Ada again, no less, making up some half-arsed excuse for her mate.

Tommy should fucking know better than to let his siblings play matchmakers.

He gestures to Ryugin’s bartender to bring him another cup and stares down at what remains in the one he has. Then Tommy throws it back, and when he goes to set the cup down again, something catches his eye.

Or rather, someone.

The man leans against the other end of the bar, seemingly waiting for something. And he looks _good_—disheveled white oxford, dark jeans, unbuttoned waistcoat—so much so that he has the full attention of Tommy’s cock.

But Tommy means to leave it, and he _would have_ if the stranger hadn’t chosen that moment to make eye contact. He notices Tommy, fucking _winks_ at him with a smile, and Tommy can’t help but roll his eyes.

It’s not enough to deter the man, who—to Tommy’s horror—is walking towards him. Tommy’s busy staring at the bar top by the time the man slides onto the bar stool next to him, his knee knocking Tommy’s. The smell of him alone is enough to have Tommy wanting to press a palm to his stiffening cock.

“Alfie Solomons.”

Tommy looks at him from the corner of his eye. “I didn’t ask.”

The man—_Alfie_—laughs loudly. “Oh yes, yes you fucking did, mate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the restaurant/bar is Ryugin, which is singing dragon in Japanese. It's the name of a real fusion restaurant in Tokyo that's supposed to be very good!


	13. Day 13 - Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 13 - Ash

When he imagined this day—and he _did_ on more than one occasion—Tommy didn’t expect it to play out quite like this. It was inevitable, of course. He has a family, a child, a business. There are appearances he has to keep up. And being caught with Alfie would’ve ruined him, ruined them _both_. Or worse. So naturally, Tommy expected that _he_ would be the one to call the whole thing off.

Except, in the end, it wasn’t him at all, and Tommy wasn’t ready for it.

He’s not sure how long he’s been drinking, but the once full bottle is beginning to look shockingly empty. The gin burns its way down Tommy’s throat, settling in his belly. There, it turns to ash, and Tommy prays that it cools and smothers the embers still warm with affection for a man he didn’t quite realize he felt something more for.


	14. Day 14 - Overgrown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 14 - Overgrown

“Oh, fucking…” Tommy exhales sharply and points. “No. Fucking no.”

Alfie blinks at him over his book in bed. He keeps his expression blank, which only serves to make Tommy frown all the more deeply.

“Alfie, I swear to God I _will_ leave.”

Cyril whines a bit where he lays next to Alfie, and Alfie scratches him behind the ears.

“You’re hurting his feelings, mate. I know he don’t look it, but Cyril’s a soft touch. Got to mind your manners.”

“I’m not sleeping with a fucking dog,” Tommy says, reaching for the shirt he discarded hastily earlier and shoving his arms in the sleeves.

“Wellll, it’s not exactly like _he_ wants to sleep with someone from Birmingham. But we’ve talked about it, right, had a nice long chat, and Cyril thought it’d be alright as long as you didn’t disturb his rest. Bit particular, our Cyril. Ain’t that right?”

Cyril wiggles further up the bed and rests his massive head on Alfie’s chest, basking in the attention.

“Alfie—”

“Package deal. Non-negotiable.”

He vaguely registers a stream of muttered curses, but Alfie is too busy stroking Cyril between the eyes with his thumb to bother with Tommy’s little tantrum. His nose tells him that Tommy’s lit-up along with the suddenly chill air against his bare skin from the now open window.

His eyes are closed when he feels the dip in the bed a few minutes later. Alfie opens them to peer over at Tommy who looks positively murderous over the whole situation. And that stormy look only grows darker when Cyril paws lightly at Tommy’s arm.

“Go on then, give him a stroke, mate. He’s asking like a gentleman.”

To his credit, Tommy attempts it, but Cyril seems unimpressed. It’s alright though; Alfie will give it some time.


	15. Day 15 - Legend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 15 - Legend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Inception AU that no one asked for! Longest fic in this collection yet, but I had to do some set-up work.

It takes him five days and a favor to get a working number for Alfie. When he does, the arsehole doesn’t even pick up.

“White bread. Special recipe. It’s worth your while, Mr. Solomons,” is all he says in his voicemail.

Three hours later he receives an address for a little pub in Rovinj.

*

“So the job?” Alfie prompts, pushing a glass of water idly around the table.

“I need a chemist onsite. Complex extraction.”

Alfie smirks, unsurprised. “How complex, Tom?”

“MI5 agent. Chester Campbell.”

“Fuuuck me.” Alfie slouches back in his chair. “And the blend?”

“Three levels.”

“Three?! Fucking _three_.”

“Can you do it?”

“Can we fucking do it, he asks. Yeah, yeah, we can do it, mate. But this ain’t no extraction we’re talking about.”

Tommy hums. “No, it’s not.”

*

They end up in bed before the night’s over. It doesn’t surprise Tommy. Nothing surprises Tommy anymore, least of all Alfie.

Glancing over at him, Tommy surveys what he hadn’t been able to properly appreciate in the mad scramble to get Alfie inside of him—new (but equally as awful) ink, bulkier muscles, the slightly neater trim to his beard. In the low light of the room, he suddenly remembers why he asked this man to marry him five years ago.

(He also remembers the break-up acutely, all those very sound reasons why the two of them together was absolute madness, but _that_ he tries to ignore for the moment).

“Heard some rumors,” Alfie says finally, reaching to take a drag from his cigarette.

“People ought to shut their fucking mouths.”

“You’re the most infamous extractor in the business. Big fish in a small pond. Bound to be some gossip.”

“Alfie,” he says low, a warning.

“That point you were working with exclusively—little blonde one? They say she died, but not before you got her up the spout.”

Tommy has never wanted to punch him more than he does just now (and that includes the time in Makassar).

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

“Oh, but I think it is,” Alfie says, calmly. “And not just on account of me still being your husband, right? Technically speaking, of course. See, trauma like that—you know as well as I do—it fucks with your brain. So what I need to know—and this is why it’s my _fucking_ business—is if you got a shade down there I need to worry about.”

Tommy does his level best to try to ignore the phantom pain of a bullet to the heart.


	16. Day 16 - Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 16 - Wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The college AU no one asked for. This prompt was more difficult to write for than expected, so I hope it all turned out okay. 
> 
> Trigger warning for dub-con given that they've both been drinking a bit, but they're not drunk. Just to be on the safe side though.

“Fuck,” he mutters, feeling around his pockets for his light and coming up empty.

His expression must be panicked—and _Christ _he _is_ when he hasn’t lit up in forty minutes—because he suddenly has the attention of a bloke who had been busy chatting with other people moments before. The look he receives is positively predatory, making Tommy’s insides squirm pleasantly. He’s the most attractive person Tommy’s seen in months, and he doesn’t think that’s just his buzzed, twenty-year-old hormones talking.

“Alright, mate?”

“Lost my light,” Tommy answers, shrugging and shoving his cigarettes back into his pocket.

“Ah, shit luck, that.”

“Seems to be tonight’s theme.”

“Not having a good time?”

Tommy barely suppresses a snort. His idea of a good time definitely does not consist of going to some fucking awful college party with his sister, listening to headache-inducing music, and fighting his way through throngs of people for a smoke.

“You could say that.”

“Right, well, do you want to have a good time?”

Tommy’s mouth twitches upward. “Is that a fucking line?”

“I suppose that depends on whether you want it to be.”

Ah fuck it. What the hell? Yeah, maybe he did. 

*

“Name’s Alfie,” he says, his teeth dragging along Tommy’s jaw as he holds himself above Tommy on the bed.

Tommy rolls his hips against him, unaffected. “I don’t care.”

“Mm, right little ice queen, aren’t you?”

“Depends on whether I’m getting what I want.”

Alfie reads it for the challenge it is and lifts up. There’s some fumbling and the sound of bottle being opened before Alfie’s focus is back on him. Tommy feels it then—a slicked finger against his arsehole, touching meaningfully but not with force.

“Oh, you’ll get what you want, sweetheart, and more before I’m done with you.”


	17. Day 17 - Ornament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 17 - Ornament

“This was the _worst_ fucking idea…” Alfie grumbles, tossing the remnants of shot glasses in the trash.

“I agree completely,” Tommy says, looking at him from across the kitchen island. “And it was all yours. The hill you were prepared to die on if I recall, eh, which is ironic given you don’t even fucking celebrate Christmas.”

The sounds of the rest of the Shelby clan filter in from the other rooms. Their flat is full to bursting with Tommy’s family for their little Christmas get together, and in true Shelby fashion it turned out to be a fucking circus. High on sweets, John’s kids had knocked into the shelf holding Alfie’s fucking god awful shot glasses (that were the source of a quarterly fight between him and his husband, and Tommy’s chuffed to see them gone because Alfie doesn’t even fucking drink so what’s the fucking point). The broken glasses weren’t even the first thing to go awry this evening. Tommy fully expects to finish a whole fucking bottle of gin himself at this rate just to get through the night.

“Maybe let Arthur have his turn hosting next year?” Tommy suggests.

“Arthur can’t find his own arse with two hands and a bloody map.”

“Alfie, I’m not suggesting he take over the company, just dinner and drinks.”

Even with the whole flat a disaster, Alfie still doesn’t look ready to budge on this. Tommy sighs and walks around the island. He places his arms around Alfie’s neck, giving him the _look_—the one that means he’ll make it worth Alfie’s while if he concedes on the point.

“You’re a slag, Thomas Shelby.”

“Only when my husband’s being a stubborn prick.”

Alfie hums thoughtfully, but Tommy has sat through enough business meetings with him to know that he’s not about to give up anything anytime soon. Doubly so when it means Arthur has something to gain.

“I’ll let you have anything you want,” Tommy whispers into his ear, pressing against him for good measure.

“Yeah?” Alfie asks, suddenly intrigued.

“Yes.”

“Carte blanche?”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Carte blanche. Just agree we won’t have my family over all at once again.”

“Done.”

Tommy expects a kiss, maybe even Alfie’s hands on him. Instead, Alfie steps away to grab his mobile. After a moment, Tommy’s shown a picture of some massive dog at a shelter as Alfie positively beams at him.


	18. Day 18 - Misfit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 18 - Misfit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to Day 8 - Frail. It's probably best if you read that before reading this for the full effect.

Tommy wills his heart to stop beating so quickly as he approaches a waiting Alfie. He doesn’t know _why_ he feels like he’s walking to his execution when this is a perfectly fucking normal thing to do. And maybe _that’s_ half the problem, eh? Tommy’s never done things the way they tell you they’re meant to be done.

When he reaches Alfie at the door, Tommy gives him a hard look.

_I hate you_, he thinks. _I hate that you’re making me do something when I know I’ll fail. And I hate that I’ll make you hate me when I do. _

Alfie knocks on the door and then turns the knob, ushering Tommy in with him with a hand on the small of Tommy’s back. The flat is small, well-lit, and tastefully decorated. From the settee, an elderly woman struggles to get up and—despite Alfie’s protests—shuffles to them.

“There you are, darling!” she says, lifting an arm to wrap around Alfie’s neck.

Tommy’s momentarily stunned by her, this tiny woman who somehow gave birth to a larger-than-life man like Alfie. She’s wrinkled and hunched over, her hair an iron grey and a slight tremble in her hands. Tommy resists the urge to reach out and steady her.

“—and you must be Alfie’s young man.”

He blinks, realizing that he’s missed part of Alfie’s exchange with his mother. Just as Tommy remembers his manners, he’s caught off guard again as she smiles—the same smile as Alfie—and squeezes his arm affectionately.

“Tommy,” she says fondly, and it’s not a question. “Alfie’s told me so much about you.”

“I hope only the good things.”

Tommy looks at Alfie, looking at him. He thinks that’s what someone who isn’t a gang leader with a sketchy history would say. Judging from Alfie’s expression, he’s not doing too horribly.

“Oh, I know just what kind of trouble you boys get up to, don’t I?” she says, wagging her finger as if he’d just been caught sneaking sweets instead of running a criminal enterprise. “And I don’t just mean in the bedroom.”

Alfie’s bark of laughter rings in his ears as he feels blood rush to his face. Apparently sensing his sudden discomfort, she pats his hand warmly, grinning.

“Come along now,” she says, pulling Tommy along with her. “Alfie, dear, put the kettle on while Tommy and I have a chat.”


	19. Day 19 - Sling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 19 - Sling

The bell on the door rings as he steps into Camden’s busiest bakery. Except, there’s not a soul to be seen inside just now, none but Alfie, who smirks at him from behind the till.

“Wellll, if it isn’t Lord Shelby come to grace us commoners with his presence,” Alfie says before gesturing towards a sign that reads: _Will return at 12:30_. “Don’t they teach you sorry Brummies how to read?”

“Thought the sign only applied to the plebs.”

Alfie snorts. “Yeah, you fucking would, wouldn’t ya?”

As Alfie busies himself at the coffee machines, Tommy takes a seat. It’s been more than a month since he’s visited the bakery, having been tied up with other business when he’s been in town. It looks a bit different. Whatever Alfie’s decided to do to the place looks good though.

“What happened there?” Alfie asks, pulling him from his inspection of the place.

Tommy looks down at his bandaged arm, resting in its sling. “Horse accident. Nothing too serious.”

“Serious if it’s your wank hand, ain’t it?” Alfie challenges, coming around the counter and placing Tommy’s usual order in front of him.

“I manage,” Tommy says softly, grinning. “And thank you.”

To Tommy’s mild surprise, Alfie takes the seat across from him. He hadn’t been sure how it would go, but if Alfie’s upset with him for disappearing for weeks, he doesn’t show it.

“We’ll be doing more business in London now,” Tommy explains, sipping his drink. “Just secured three more accounts.”

“Good fucking day to be a Shelby then.”

“Not awful,” he concedes.

After a beat—so quick, because Tommy’s not sure he’ll go through with it if he overthinks it—Tommy reaches across the table to brush the tips of Alfie’s fingers with his own.

“Get a drink with me tonight. To celebrate.”

Alfie shrugs. “You know I don’t really drink, mate.”

“Christ, Alfie.”

He holds Alfie’s gaze for a long, heated moment, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. He’s putting himself out there—which he fucking _hates_—and Alfie’s fucking testing him. This isn’t fucking new to them. No, that’s not quite right, eh? It _is_. _This_ is—the invitation out, to be seen together in public in a way that suggests intimate familiarity. But the rest? The rest is a well-worn thing they both know by heart.

Tommy watches Alfie’s eyes shift downwards, resting on the gold band around Tommy’s left finger. His brow raises, the question clear. Tommy shrugs, which seems to be enough for Alfie.

“Say eight then? At mine. And don’t forget something for Cyril. He hates selfish bastards, and I haven’t heard the end of it since you forgot the last time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I think is obvious by now, I'm never actually going to get caught up with Inktober before the 31st. My plan is to continue posting until I finish the last prompt, but I suspect we'll be about a week into November at that point given I'm swamped with deadlines this week. Bear with me, all!


	20. Day 20 - Tread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 20 - Tread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, the end of October was a shitshow, so this whole challenge got put aside for a bit. I'm determined to finish it though! Also, I initially approached this one as "treading lightly," but Tommy had other ideas. 
> 
> The "sharing a bed" trope was prompted by comebackjessica!

“You’re fucking joking,” Tommy says, more to the room than anything.

He hears the door behind him swing shut, and then Alfie’s standing next to him, humming thoughtfully as he assesses the situation. The hotel has somehow cocked it up and given them a room with a single king-sized bed, which would be fine, as far as Tommy’s concerned, except he’s sharing with Alfie.

Tommy walks briskly across the room. “I’m phoning the front desk.”

“The lad said they’re booked up, so it won’t make a bit of difference.”

He throws Alfie a look as if this is all _Alfie’s_ fault and proceeds to phone down. The conversation that ensues involves a lot of swearing on Tommy’s end and apologies from both the concierge and manager as there’s nothing they can do, but they’re happy to provide complimentary breakfast as a consolation. Tommy would love nothing more than to shove their complimentary breakfast up their arses.

*

The plan is to go undercover as a boring couple from the suburbs in order to gather intelligence on a former government agent by the name of Campbell. When they’d received the assignment, Tommy thought nothing of it. He and Alfie have had their differences in the past, but they’re fucking professionals. The job is utterly uncomplicated and with negligible risk, especially in comparison with previous assignments.

Or so Tommy thought up until the moment Alfie walked out of the ensuite bath, shirtless and still half wet. His stomach flips violently, but not altogether unpleasantly at the sight. Tommy tries his level best to ignore it.

“Still angry?”

Tommy doesn’t bother to look up from the book he’s reading.

“Right. You do realize we’re playing newlyweds in less than twenty-four hours, yeah? So you might consider—just fucking think about it for a minute, right—whether or not you’re up for the task, mate. Because there’s about to be a lot of fucking nights together in the same bed.”

“I’m up for it,” he mutters before he can catch himself.

Alfie snorts. “Yeaahh, you look it, don’t you?”

Tommy slams the book shut and takes off his reading glasses, depositing both on the bedside table and throwing all caution to the wind. Shifting to his knees, Tommy shuffles forward until he’s at the edge of the bed in front of Alfie. He takes a long moment to look into Alfie’s blue-gray eyes before he reaches out, winding his arms around Alfie’s neck. Before he can talk himself out of it, Tommy leans forward and presses his lips against the plush of Alfie’s mouth. The kiss is deep, his lips moving with practiced grace until he feels his brain short circuit. Suddenly, he feels his control slipping through his fingers. His tongue runs along the seam of Alfie’s lips, and Alfie easily parts for him. Tommy’s fingers grip the short hairs at Alfie’s nape, pushing him in closer but not so close that their chests touch.

Its several heady moments before Tommy pulls back, mouth swollen. He stares hard at Alfie, falling back into his usual coolness (though not without some difficulty).

“I’m _up_ for it, arsehole.”


	21. Day 21 - Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 21 - Treasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet occurs in the same Inception AU 'verse as Day 15 - Legend, taking place years before when Tommy and Alfie are just starting to work together a bit.

“—we’re in the middle of the bleedin’ ocean, right? Water ‘s so clear and blue it’d put those fuckin’ eyes of yours to shame, Tom, if you can fuckin’ imagine that—”

Tommy can. In fact, Tommy thinks he can _feel_ it more than see it. Not that that makes a bit of sense. But he’s had a lovely white wine—1811 Chateau d’Yguem if Alfie’s to be believed—and wine has always gone to his head faster than most alcohol.

He realizes a little too late that he’s lost the thread of whatever story Alfie’s weaving him. Usually, he’s a bit annoyed by these grand performances—because Alfie, for all that he may be brilliant, can’t ever manage to get to the fuckin’ point—but Tommy finds himself patient tonight.

His limbs feel a little heavy, his chest a little warm. The arcs and flourishes of Alfie’s hands, busy drawing something elaborate in the air for him no doubt, draw his eye. That is until Tommy catches sight of dark ink peeking out from where Alfie’s shirt sleeves are bunched up around his elbows. After that, Tommy is far too preoccupied by the desire to find out what the rest of the tattoo looks like—how that skin might taste beneath his tongue—to care about the motion of Alfie’s hands.

_Shit_.

“—and it’s there, we can _see_ it. Right where the kid’s little treasure map says it’ll be. But before we can get to shore—and don’t ask me how, mate, I haven’t the foggiest bloody idea what tipped ‘im off, but something did, didn’t it?—because right _there_ a fuckin’ _kraken_ rises out of the water. And it don’t make any sense, does it, because the water isn’t that deep. But there you have it. _Kraken_, out of bleedin’ nowhere—”

“Kraken?” Tommy asks, his skepticism somehow penetrating his otherwise blissful mental state. “You’re sure it wasn’t a giant squid?”

Alfie freezes and gives him a _look_.

“Am I sure it wasn’t a giant squid he asks?” he mutters to himself before turning his attention back to Tommy. “Were you there, mate? Because if so, please _do_ stop me. I wouldn’t want to bore you. But, and here’s the thing, if you _weren’t _there, right? If you _weren’t_ on the job, then maybe you ought to shut the fuck up and let me finish the story without any interruptions.”

Tommy’s lips twitch upwards as he lifts his hands in surrender.

“And for the fuckin’ record, yeah, I know the difference between a kraken and a giant squid, don’t I?”

Tommy’s _smiling_ a bit then. Mostly because of Alfie’s steely expression, as if questioning whether he knows his cephalopods—mythic or otherwise—is a grave affront to his person. And Tommy can’t quite swallow his laughter before it slips out. He tries to at least cover it up by taking a drag from his cigarette, but Alfie’s too fuckin’ perceptive to miss it and too big of an arsehole to let it go.

“Alright, yeah. Well.” Alfie leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his stomach. “_That_ is all you’re getting of the story, innit? Now you’ll never know _why_, exactly, I got out of extraction and the field more fuckin’ generally.”

Tommy rubs the cigarette on his lower lip thoughtfully.

“And here I thought it was because you wanted to put your doctorates in chemical engineering and molecular biology to good use.”

“And you’d be wrong, wouldn’t ya.”

“Apparently so.” 

Tommy leans forward, taking the neck of the Chateau d’Yguem in hand to pour himself another glass. It’s _good_. A little sweet, but working its magic nonetheless. He’s about to top off Alfie’s glass as well when he notices the restaurant’s music shift to something completely ill-suited for the venue. The other patrons turn to stare at him and Alfie. Behind them, glass shatters. Tommy’s reaching for his gun when he realizes that this whole thing has been a—

*

Tommy’s eyes flutter open. It takes him a moment to remember that he’s in one of the storage rooms at Alfie’s Camden bakery. In the chair beside him, Alfie’s already removing the cannula from his arm and binning the needle.

After a few seconds, Tommy is surprised to find his head isn’t pounding like he expects. Dreams like that—the ones where he feels heavy in body and light in mood—tend to give him headaches. While he’s worked with Alfie a few times before, he’d only requested the standard Somnacin mix for those jobs. There was a lot to appreciate about Alfie’s special blends it would seem.

“That’ll do ya?” Alfie asks, winding up his line.

“It should. I didn’t catch on until the end even though there were a few things that were off. It won’t negate the risk of militarization, but it should buy us enough time to get the account numbers.”

“There’s nothing to be done for the synesthesia. Been trying to iron out that wrinkle for fuckin’ weeks, haven’t I.”

“I’ll talk to my point and architect. The alcohol is a good enough cover for it, so we’ll have to incorporate that somehow into the narrative,” Tommy says, then pauses. “The Chateau was a red flag.”

Alfie smirks and shrugs one shoulder, leaning against the desk. “And yet.”

He hums. “And yet.”

Tommy takes a few moments to right himself, fixing his sleeve and putting on his jacket. In exchange for the Somnacin, Tommy hands Alfie an envelope fat with money. They trade pleasant enough goodbyes before Alfie grabs Tommy’s wrist.

“The Chateau.”

“What about it, eh?”

“Might be I have some. If you’d like to know what a hundred grand bottle of wine tastes like.”

Tommy’s surprised, but he doesn’t know why. Alfie is involved in more criminal activities than Tommy’s ever been in, and he’s certain that many of them make dreamshare look legal by comparison.

Maybe he does want to know what it tastes like in reality. Or maybe it has nothing to do with the wine at all. He’s not so emotionally stunted that he needs to lie to himself about this. Since he first met Alfie, Alfie’s always _done_ something to him. _For _him. He’s never considered pursuing it before, but he does have a brief lull between jobs next month and his dance card is wide open.


	22. Day 22 - Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inktober Day 22 - Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I've been wanting to write this one for ages.

The feel of Alfie’s cock against his hole has Tommy’s legs dropping open just a little further, stretched as far as they’ll go and maybe even a little more. The blunt press of him makes Tommy inhale sharply, and he holds his breath until Alfie’s penetrated the tight ring of muscle—_fuck_, still too fucking tight, which is his own damn fault—before exhaling slowly.

The whine that slips past his lips is involuntary as Alfie presses in deeper. Tommy appreciates the way he eases in, giving him proper time to adjust, and the way Alfie’s hand has settled on his arse to help hold him in place. His thumb strokes tender patterns along Tommy’s skin as the muscles beneath remain tense from the sudden intrusion.

When Alfie bottoms out, Tommy clenches and allows his head to fall to the side. Alfie’s breath is hot against his neck, his teeth nipping at Tommy’s thin flesh above his pulse. Tommy doesn’t bother holding back a little moan at that. Instead, he fists the short hairs at the nape of Alfie’s neck. It’s been too fuckin’ long since he’s been with Alfie like this. Right now, Tommy doesn’t give a shit whether Alfie knows it or not.

“Alright?” Alfie asks, his voice warm and soft in Tommy’s ear.

Tommy shifts to placing a fumbling kiss on Alfie’s jaw. “Yes.”

He should have said _just move_ or _fuck off_, anything that won’t give him away. The affirmative, given up so easily, makes Tommy’s belly coil up tightly, but not altogether unpleasantly. His heart stammers and then beats wildly as Alfie draws out and then shoves back into him again, rocking him hard.

_I want_, he thinks. Tommy’s not entirely sure what, exactly. He can feel it on the tip of his tongue. _Your cock_, certainly. _This_, maybe. But that’s not it, not entirely, is it? But the other thing—the other word—well, it feels like a betrayal.

Alfie brings him closer and closer with each thrust over that place inside him that makes him lost a grip on himself. He’s holding Alfie tightly to him, with aching thighs and arms scrambling for purchase on Alfie’s back, but it still doesn’t feel close enough, not even when he’s buried his face into Alfie’s neck and can hardly breathe.

_I want_.

His toes curl with the feel of his orgasm rising up steady within him. He can almost grasp it; there, but not quite. Not just yet. Alfie’s hot mouth scorches an impression of his lips against Tommy’s temple.

_You_.

The realization leaves him gasping for air, pulling back from Alfie’s neck to suck in a breath of the cold night air. And he sees her for the first time then, blonde and beautiful in her simple skirt and sweater. She stares at him for a moment, and Tommy can’t help but stare back dumbly as Alfie slams into him. His pleasure suddenly feels a little too close to pain. His pulse should be quickening, but the sight of her there sends it dropping to a lazy trudge. It makes his head spin.

She approaches, her expression sympathetic. She’d heard him then.

_I want him_.

_I’ve _always_ wanted him_.

It feels like a cruel confession, but she kneels down beside the bed anyway. He can’t quite take his eyes off her even as he’s teetering on the edge of orgasm.

_Oh, Tommy_. Her eyes are too kind. _Everyone’s a whore. We just sell different parts of ourselves._

He opens his mouth to tell her she’s wrong—even though she’s so, so right—but all he can manage a long moan that sounds suspiciously like Alfie’s name.


	23. Day 23 - Ancient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 23 - Ancient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fascinating how Inktober became, idk, Inkuary or something, isn't it? XD

“What the fuck?”

To his credit, Alfie does manage to look the tiniest bit guilty, which is far more than Tommy expected of him. He crosses his arms over his chest and fixes Alfie with a _look_, gesturing with a quick nod in the direction of the new sofa, which Alfie presently occupies with _Cyril_.

Contrary to what Alfie believes, Tommy’s an animal person. If he wasn’t, Alfie and Cyril wouldn’t be here (as Alfie made it abundantly clear when they’d started dating that he and Cyril were a package deal). However, unlike Alfie, he has his limits with what he’ll allow Cyril to get away with.

He’d relented early on to Cyril being shut outside the bedroom while they fucked (“Listen to ‘im whingin’ out there, you heartless bastard; he’s lonely!”). And he’d reluctantly given up his mission to teach Cyril not to beg (“He’s not beggin’, mate. He’s just puttin’ his head on your knee because he wants to be near you.”). He’d even recently allowed Cyril to start sleeping with them after he’d woke up in the middle of the night to find Alfie curled up with a sick Cyril on the dog bed (“He needs a cuddle when his tummy hurts. Helps him sleep better. And Christ knows _you_ won’t let ‘im in the bed for a snuggle.”). So yes, Tommy has learned to pick his battles because he’s unequivocally in love with Alfie Solomons, despite his better judgment and his brothers’ attempts to make him see reason.

But _this_, they’d talked about this before Tommy’d ever bought the sofa, the luxury sofa that cost him upwards of four thousand pounds. The one currently occupied by his partner and his partner’s beast of a dog.

“I thought we’d agreed before I left,” Tommy says, trying his best to stay level-headed. 

“Yeahhh, well,” Alfie says, sighing. “_We_ did, right. You and me. But the thing is—”

“There is no _thing_, Alfie.”

Alfie raises his hand to stop Tommy from continuing. “Normally, I’d agree with you. We had a nice long chat. You threatened me within an inch of my life, and we came to a proper agreement, didn’t we? And, right, that all would have been fine, but, you see, the thing is—”

“Jesus!”

“Cyril called a dog moot while you were away,” Alfie says quickly, tossing his hands up as if to emphasize that there was nothing he could do.

“A fuckin’ what?”

“A dog moot. You know, _Dog Moot_.”

“You can say it as slowly as you’d like. I have no fuckin’ idea what you’re on about, Alfie, but you’re about to be out a boyfriend if you don’t remove Cyril from my sofa right now.”

“And I’d like to do that, darling. I would. But, well, it was decided at the moot that Cyril would be allowed on the sofa. It’s Dog Law now, and there’s nothing to be done for it.”

“_Dog law_?” Tommy asks, seething and feeling a headache beginning.

“Yeah, Dog Law has been decided at Dog Moot for ages, hasn’t it? And Cyril, see, as a sign of how much he deeply respects us, right, he allowed me to sit in as human representative. And I explained that you’d be upset and that we had an agreement, but human pacts aren’t legally binding in Dog Law. So really, I did what I could. But they held a vote anyway—all the neighborhood dogs who came for the Moot, right—and it was decided that sofa bans were no longer recognized under Dog Law.”

Tommy stands perfectly still and stares up at the ceiling. After a moment, he exhales slowly and tries to collect himself. He reminds himself that he loves this man, that he’d hoped to maybe marry him one day. Also that murder is highly illegal even though he’s quite certain any judge, at least one in their right mind, would be sympathetic to his case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I'd love to take credit for Dog Moot, that creation belongs to my older brother. However, an occasional dog moot is held by the family dogs, so I've seen my fair share.


	24. Day 24 - Dizzy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 24 - Dizzy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of the larger hustler!au I've been working on, but it occurs far earlier in their relationship than I've written about before. All the standard warnings for a hustler!au apply here, but nothing particularly triggery occurs. This is pretty much sick!fic.

At the corner shop, Alfie picks up a premade sandwich and ponders over it. And he feels like a fucking twat, right, standing here and contemplating whether or not Tommy will like this one. Maybe he doesn’t even _eat_sandwiches; Alfie’s not spent much time with him, and when they’re together, it’s not as if they’re talking about food exactly. He could be allergic to bread for all Alfie fucking knows, couldn’t he?

Frustrated, he shoves the sandwich back into the cold case. Alfie will pick him up some crisps and a coke. Leave it at that. He doesn’t even know why he bothers in the first place. Tommy’s just some scrawny little hustler he’s picked up a few times. It’s a means to an end, innit? Tommy’s got something warm to fuck into, and Alfie pays for the privilege of an uncomplicated sexual exchange. 

But, well, the thing is, it’s gotten a bit more complicated, hasn’t it? Because the weather, it’s taken a turn, and Tommy, see…Tommy hasn’t any meat on his bones to begin with and has enough holes in his clothes that Alfie can’t imagine he’d be able to keep in what little heat his body _does_ make.

With _that_ heavy on his mind, Alfie goes back to the case and picks out two different sandwiches. He’s not got much cash flow at the moment, but he has enough for a little lunch for the kid. Tommy can have whichever he likes, and if Alfie can somehow fit it into the conversation, maybe he’ll ask Tommy about his preferences. He doubts this is the last sandwich he’ll be buying for him this winter.

Once he’s paid for the sandwiches and a few other things that he thinks teenagers probably like, Alfie rounds the corner to the street that Tommy tends to work at this hour. It’s a bit of a walk, but Alfie finds him eventually. He expects Tommy to be leaning against one of the dilapidated buildings, making himself available to be cruised, so it’s a bit disconcerting to see him sitting on the steps leading to one of the buildings instead.

“Tommy?”

The kid raises his head, but it looks like it takes some effort. Alfie frowns. He drops the bag next to his feet and gives Tommy a once over. He looks a bit peaky, doesn’t he? Pale with glassy eyes, all huddled up tight.

“Alright?”

“M’fine,” Tommy rasps. “What d’ya want—”

Tommy’s come-hither look and rise to his feet are abruptly aborted as he lurches forward on weak legs, dizzy. His reflexes quick, Alfie manages to catch him before he gets hurt. Tommy’s skin is hot to the touch, which surprises Alfie as he’d been curled up on himself as if he were freezing. A fever then.

“How long have you been feelin’ like this, hmm?” Alfie asks, ducking down to meet Tommy’s bleary eyes.

“Just a few days,” Tommy answers. “S’alright, eh. I can still—”

“The fuck you can.”

“I _have_ to, Alfie,” he whinges, suddenly shaking a bit and biting his chapped lip. “I’m behind. Kimber’s already pissed off ‘cause I’ve not brought in ‘nough.”

With the way Tommy’s struggling to string together his words, Alfie knows he has no business peddling his arse to strange men. It’s a recipe for getting himself killed is what it is. And _fuck_ Kimber to fucking hell and back, yeah? Alfie’s done some pretty fucking unsavory things—wouldn’t be where he is if he hadn’t, would he—but even he draws the fucking line somewhere. Tommy’s a _kid_ who doesn’t have no one.

“I’ll get on my knees,” Tommy says, attempting seduction again but falling a far cry short of it. “C’mon, Alfie.” 

“Out of the question. You can’t even breathe through that nose.” Alfie picks up the bag from the shop and Tommy’s grubby rucksack. “Right, you’re coming with me.”

“I _can’t_. Kimber—”

“Is going to get you killed, yeah?” Alfie finishes for him, and judging by Tommy’s resigned look, he doesn’t disagree entirely. “You can’t fight back in that state if you get into trouble. I won’t have you thrown in the bloody Thames.”

“Y’said y’couldn’t see me for a couple weeks.”

Alfie _had_ said that last time he’d picked Tommy up. And it’d killed him, hadn’t it—the way Tommy’s face fell when he’d told him. Because, right, Tommy…well, Tommy’s a little bit in love with him, ain’t he? Alfie knows it; the kid looks at him like he’s hung the sodding moon when he asks Tommy if he’d like a blowie. How could he _not_ see it, right? So it’d crushed him a bit to have to tell Tommy that he’d lost some territory and a very fucking profitable shipment. Alfie may be rising in London’s underbelly, but he’s still a small fish. And small fish, they don’t exactly have loads of disposable income to spend on teenage hustlers.

“I did, alright. I wasn’t lying,” Alfie explains, because it’s important Tommy knows that. “I’ll sort it. You come along with me now.”

For the first few steps, Alfie has to pull him by the arm as if he’s a particularly stubborn puppy, but eventually Tommy manages to be led easily enough towards Alfie’s shitty little flat. As they walk, Alfie wracks his brain for product he can move or races he can rig in order to pay for Tommy to have a couple days off his feet. It’s not as much as he needs, but it’s all that Alfie can do.


	25. Day 25 - Tasty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 25 - Tasty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK what to say, y'all. Since my last update, I've gotten married and wrote a 50+ page dissertation chapter. Then this whole pandemic thing happened??? I have a little free time now that my dissertation defense has been postponed for the entire summer, so maybe I'll finish this series this month?
> 
> I'm a little rusty on the fiction-writing front, and I'm aware that this isn't my usual Tommy-perspective. Nevertheless, have some smut, babes.

Tommy hesitates a bit.

He feels half a boy again, fumbling blindly under Greta’s skirts for anything that might elicit a whimper. The damp air doesn’t help keep his memories at bay, but there’s a saltiness here instead of pungent stench of Birmingham rivers. And his knees—Christ, does he feel his age there. Good knees are wasted on the young, Uncle Charlie used to tell him as a lad. He understands it now in a way he never did then.

This would be easier, maybe, if his bones weren’t bringing him back to his body, reminding him acutely of where he was and what he was doing.

On his knees.

In front of Alfie fucking Solomons.

It was inevitable, Tommy thinks, that he’d end up here. Not Margate, but between Alfie’s strong, thick thighs. Inevitable since that first meeting when he felt a stirring of something and his mouth go dry. Easier to blame his injuries than probe at that blossoming bruise inside him. The bruise wouldn’t ever heal, just grow darker—purple seeping into black—with every betrayal. The bullet hadn’t been the balm he’d been looking for; the bruise only burst open, weeping like the ugly thing it was.

He should have done this as a younger man. Easier to blame this on folly, to gamble when there was so very little to lose. Marriage, money, children, politics; they make this feel like a game a duchess once played with his gun.

_It brings you alive. You won’t try it?_

Inhaling, his stretches his fingers wide above Alfie’s knees, their tips flirting with the edges of Alfie’s pants. He glances at Alfie’s cock, hard and tenting soft cotton, the small wet patch growing bit by bit.

His eyes are drawn upwards at the sensation of Alfie’s heavy gaze. _I should have done this sooner_, he thinks again as he takes in the ruin of Alfie’s face. _Before it’d ever come to this_.

When Alfie’s calloused hand cups his cheek, his jaw, his eyes shut on their own. The touch is too tender for such abrasive hands. Light, like a pickpocket, across his skin. The only sense of urgency comes when Alfie shifts, raising his hips to push his pants down.

Tommy’s never been on this end of things, doesn’t know what to do exactly. But he lingers over the sight of Alfie’s cock, thick and heavy against his belly, and _wants_ with a fierce fire licking at his insides. He’ll make a mess of this, he knows, watching a bead of cum slip down Alfie’s thin, red skin. His inexperience will out, but Alfie won’t care, not until after the deed itself is done.

As he leans forward, Tommy tries to remember all those little things that sent a thrill down his spine when he’d had a woman on her knees for him. He nuzzles at the crease of Alfie’s hip, course hair scratching at his face. It feels intimate—taking in the dizzying stink of arousal on his skin. He presses his lip into the fold of flesh, wonders dazedly if such a gesture was far _too_ intimate between two men like them. But Alfie relaxes, his exhale a jagged little thing.

He buries his nose in a thatch of dark blonde hair, for no other reason than he wants to. The heady scent of clean sweat, of summer heat and wet air, slakes his every inch, makes his mouth eager for the heat that rests hard against his cheek.

Tommy noses around and draws back. Alfie’s expression is something of a wonder. Maybe he’s impressed at how badly Tommy’s mucking it up, but there’s something else, Tommy sees, that suggests maybe he’s done something _right_.

And he feels it then, like an old friend he’d lost before the war—that vicious desire to _please_. Not to impress, not to affect. This thing he feels, it’s entirely from within him and directed without. It scares him. He shivers like he flinched every time his father had walked in and closed the front door. But it slinks around his belly and amplifies his need. Always needy—Tommy. An empty thing pretending to be filled.

When he parts his lips, Tommy holds Alfie’s gaze. He likes this bit himself and imagines Alfie might like the rush of it too, the sense of power. The tip of his tongue darts out, laps at the sticky streak of cum on the head of Alfie’s cock. Its taste is salty-raw to his senses, utterly unfamiliar in a way that makes his stomach drop like he’s riding a wild horse. He doesn’t like it, but, God, does he want more of it in his mouth.

His sinks down, mouth clumsy and muscles straining around the width of him. He’s not doing this right—his cheeks not hollowed, his teeth uncovered, his tongue unsure where exactly to press. Worst of all, as he tries to suck pleasantly, he takes Alfie in a little too far, spit dribbling down his chin as he nearly chokes himself.

Tommy backs off quickly, breathes in a nervous breath. He doesn’t like these feelings he has for Alfie, but he can’t quite help wishing he was better at _this_. Pressing kitten kisses and licks to Alfie’s cock—not quite ready to dare take Alfie in again, not quite sure Alfie wouldn’t punch him if he tried—Tommy lifts his eyes up to gauge Alfie’s reaction.

He doesn’t know what he’s done to warrant that look, but the heat of it nearly seers him, cauterizing the open wound left by a bullet in another man’s body. He feels, before he even sees it—the brush of a thumb wiping away the spit he couldn’t keep in his mouth.

“Aren’t you a sight.”

The roughness of his voice feels like gravel raking across bare skin.


	26. Day 26 - Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 26 - Dark

Arrow House is a tomb disguised as a kingdom.

Alfie knew this before he was forced to extend his stay, of course. As an observant man, he has seen the game Tommy had been playing. The marriage to the blonde woman, the baby, the grand estate, and flagrant displays of wealth—nothing more than toy soldiers like those lined up by a little hand with limited grasp on the violence man can wrought. But Alfie had seen, yes, just as he can see now the thinning grip Tommy has on sanity.

His mother had always said he had a gift for seeing things come to pass before they’d happened. And she wasn’t wrong—his mother—except that this bewildering ability of his had very little to do with being touched and far more with having two eyes in his skull. Because, and this is very important, people would know a good deal more about how things would come to be if they’d only fucking _look_. But they didn’t, did they? Two eyes sat right aside their nose—perfect working order—and _nothing_. Blind as fucking bats. So as a boy, Alfie’d learned to use the gift of sight and quietly he’d built his empire.

Now, there is a part of him—despite Tommy being a very, very, very dear mate of his—that verges on gleeful at the prospect of watching Tommy finally snap. Because Tommy, Tommy saw that rare moment in life—when one is so insignificant as to be virtually invisible to anyone that matters—Tommy felt the boot on his throat lift just for the barest moment, and he took a chance, a breath. He’d started putting his grubby fingers in every pot he could find on the gamble that surely one of them would yield gold. And they had; Alfie will allow him that. But when Tommy loses himself—and he will, of that Alfie has no doubt—all of those pots will implode, and the fallout will be a thing to behold.

In his imaginings of this cataclysmic event, Alfie had never factored in watching it from any closer than Camden. Yet, he’s here, at Arrow House, because there hadn’t been much choice otherwise. When he’d twisted his knee earlier on Tommy’s front cobblestones, he’d known he was in trouble. The ride back to London he could have suffered if it hadn’t been for an important business meeting in two days’ time with a very fascinating gentleman from Yorkshire. No, he has to have his wits sharp for that encounter, and so he’d taken Tommy up on his offer to stay the night and rest his back.

However, his proximately has forced him to bare witness to the decline of a man he’d come to think of as an alright sort. (Alfie, by his own estimation, thinks that grief over a woman who’d caught a bullet meant for you in this line of work is a very queer sort of reaction; it was inevitable, all variations on a theme, and the theme is death of an innocent, or as innocent as any human can be).

That’s not why he’s awake at this hour, of course; his angry muscles won’t give him leave to sleep. So he’s wandered around a bit, body weight bearing down on his cane as he shuffles through the mounting aches. And he finds himself in front of some room, door cracked half-open and letting out the fire-glow.

He means to leave it, but Tommy’s staggered to the door and opened it before Alfie can force his body further along the corridor. Their eyes meet in the low light. Then, Tommy quietly retreats, stinking of whisky, back inside. It’s hardly an invitation as invitations go, yet Alfie’s always had more capacious understandings of things than most. He follows.

It’s a quiet little space—a bit of seating, a fireplace, a small table in the corner not large enough to do any sort of real work at. There’s a crystal decanter half-empty with what Alfie assumes is the whisky Tommy’s been drinking on a small table between two high-back chairs. He allows himself to fall rather gracelessly into one of them. The fire’s nearness feels good on his leg.

When Tommy extends a silver case of cigarettes, Alfie takes one. He prefers his pipe when the mood strikes, but this will do in a pinch. The transaction is silent. Light. Drag. Puff. They don’t bother speaking a word to one another as they smoke. Sometimes, Alfie knows, the quiet whets the mind as much the words.

He’s drifting a bit maybe—not entirely, not with the pounding in his lower back and the _clink _of Tommy’s decanter against his glass—when Tommy hums thoughtfully. Just a little noise, just a prelude.

“I think I want to fuck you.”

It’s a slurred confession, almost accidental, one punctuated by a groan and the press of a hand to a forehead. If he has any concern that Alfie—like most men of their age and class—might beat him to a bloody pulp, Tommy doesn’t show it. Not with how he’s slouching towards him instead of away.

“That so?” Alfie asks, a little thoughtful.

Tommy peers over, face half concealed with a palm. _Christ, is he shitfaced_, Alfie thinks, shaking his head. _And too damn trusting by half_.

“Might be,” Tommy says, hesitating.

“Fucking hell, Tom.” Alfie reaches for another cigarette and lights it quickly. “You’re not selling it.”

“Selling what?”

Alfie huffs a laugh. “The size of your bollocks, mate. You say what you want like it’s already yours for the taking, or you shut the fuck up, don’t you? Easy as that. Right, a man who says to me what you just said, just like that? Tells me he don’t know his cock from his arsehole. Why the fuck would I want him in my bed, yeah?”

Tommy stares at him, baffled. When Alfie leaves it at that, Tommy must realize he’s not taking the piss. He finds some brazen, liquid courage in him, his confidence only betrayed by his failed attempt to take Alfie by the wrist, missing the mark by at least an inch.

“I want to fuck you.”

Alfie raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Alfie snorts. “Alright, yeah, maybe in the morning.”


	27. Day 27 - Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 27 - Coat

Alfie pours more oil onto his already-slick hand and watches intently as Tommy fucks himself on four fingers. It’s a thing of beauty really—Tommy’s hole red, glistening from so much oil, and stretched taut around him. Light as a feather, Alfie touches the small of Tommy’s back, pressing him carefully into an arch until Tommy’s coaxed to present himself like a bitch in heat.

Alfie’s cock throbs, a thick drop of cum slipping down his length. And he can’t quite help himself when he takes a palm full of Tommy’s arse cheek and pulls it aside just so, spreading him wider.

Tommy’s head drops. “C’mon.”

“Shh.”

“M’ready,” he pants, shoving himself back onto Alfie’s fingers.

He’s far from fucking ready as far as Alfie’s concerned. Alfie’s prided himself on knowing Tommy’s tells, and the way Tommy’s thighs are twitching like mad says everything. This is the limit; this is as far as they fucking go tonight. And four, four’s good. Four is a marvel. The sight of Tommy like this will keep him well supplied for wank fodder until Tommy’s in town again. A stiff wind just now might do him in, as a matter of fact.

But Tommy, well, he doesn’t know his limits, does he? Not with the way he’s pushing back. Or else he doesn’t _care_, and that won’t fucking do at all.

“Tom.”

Tommy must sense what he’s thinking. He grinds down hard, deep, against Alfie to the point that Alfie’s worried he might be hurting Tommy. Carefully but quickly enough, he pulls his fingers out, and the sound Tommy makes is both the most animal and most childish little whine Alfie’s ever heard.

His anger snatches him up just like that. Because the agreement, right, the _agreement_ was that Alfie would give Tommy his fist, right, on the condition that it was about pleasure and not something _else_. And it’d worked fine so far, each time they came together to build up to a full fist, but now Tommy’s gone and done it. Fucked up a good thing.

With a grip on Tommy’s hip, he pushes Tommy over, flat on his back, and sprawls on top of him, pinning him onto the bed. Blue eyes look dazed for a moment before Alfie reads the fury in them. But before Tommy can get a sound out, Alfie’s taken his wrists into hand—one hold still devilishly slick from the coating of oil—and _squeezes_.

“None of that, sweetheart. I won’t have it in my bed,” he says into Tommy’s ear.

“I want—”

“To punish yourself, yeah.” He drags his overgrown beard over the sensitive skin of Tommy’s neck. “And you’ll be doing that on someone else’s fist, won’t you? That’s my hard line, Thomas.”

“You—” Alfie covers his mouth, going in for a sloppy kiss. “—jealous if—”

“Nah. When I’m ready to be party to your particular breed of self-flagellation, you’ll know it, mate. But it won’t look anything like this.” 

“Fucking…” Tommy squirms beneath him, but remains pinned. “So what then?” Tommy shoves at his shoulder. “That’s it?”

“Never said that, did I?”

Alfie reaches between Tommy’s legs, fingertips brushing against and dipping lightly into Tommy’s stretched out arse.

“You’re soaked,” Alfie says, slipping a finger easily inside. “Drenched and open like a woman, hmm.”

“Alfie,” he whimpers, chasing Alfie’s finger with a roll of his hips.

Alfie runs his teeth along the shell of Tommy’s ear before kissing his temple. “Do you want me to fuck your pretty cunt, Tommy?”

“Yes,” Tommy hisses, fisting Alfie’s hair.

Alfie does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know fandom has a lot of different takes about violence in Tommy and Alfie's bedroom, all of which are totally valid. I'll never say never, but as a writer right now I'm definitely more 'they can do violent things to one another's bodies, but it can never be about violence.' 
> 
> Also, idk what this is exactly (other than loosely proofread), but I think at some point I promised someone a fisting fic. So I hope it satisfies.


	28. Day 28 - Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 28 - Ride

Alfie imagines—well, no, scratch that, yeah, he _knows_—that he’s a man with an exceptional talent for perception, right. But sometimes, sometimes he may be prone to a little cognitive wandering on all manner of cosmic questions. And when that happens—the mental prodding at life’s great mysteries—he has been known to find himself in the strangest situations.

Like now, with this grubby sprog running on quick but unsteady legs straight at him, right, hands outstretched. Alfie blinks at him, his head tilting. It’s only when the boy barrels past him and directly into Cyril, manic kiddie-giggles pitching loud in the otherwise quiet corner of the park, that Alfie realizes he was never the target at all.

The boy clutches Cyril’s neck, pressing himself so tightly against Cyril as if he might like to just fuse himself to the dog. Alfie can’t say he didn’t share the same sentiments when he was about that age. Cyril, for his part, snuffles at the boy’s brown hair and gives him a quick lick, ensuring he passes muster.

“’lo, puppy,” the boy says, stroking behind the dog’s ear.

“His name’s Cyril, “Alfie offers, sitting down on the bench.

He assumes the mumbled “see-wool” is close enough. While the sprog busies himself with giving Cyril all manner of affection, Alfie scans the park for a panicked-looking parent. When no one arrives within a minute or two, Alfie arches an eyebrow. Un-fucking-believable, people these days. Losing an entire kid like that, one that probably still shits his pants for all Alfie knows.

“Oi, where’s your mummy?” Alfie asks, voice soft despite the spark of irritation he feels.

“Heaven,” the boy answers, inspecting Cyril’s tags.

“Fuckin’ hell, mate. I hope not recently.”

Alfie has visions of some dead woman in this very park, the whole sordid tale, done in by some jealous lover in front of the sprog not but a couple hours ago. And well, that’s not the off-putting bit—though Alfie, he’s never been too keen on involving children in his business—but no, the _off-putting_ bit is that he’s either stuck with the kid permanently or has to turn him into the police. And Alfie has no fucking clue what that’s even like—being on the right side of the law for once.

The whole scenario, as it plays out in his vivid imagination, starts to make his stomach turn until he hears shouting. He turns his head to see a smartly dressed man running towards them. The closer the man gets the higher Alfie’s brow raises.

He’s fit, isn’t he? All lean muscles and sharp angles. And his cheekbones—fuck—might as well be chiseled by Bernini himself, yeah. Alfie’s sudden delight is only quashed a bit when he realizes that in all likelihood this beauty of a man is the child’s father, right, and that he’s probably woefully heterosexual. Not that that’s ever stopped Alfie from trying before, not categorically at least. What’s that thing they say about pasta—straight until its cooked and all that?

“Charlie! Christ, what were you thinking?” the man asks the boy as he kneels down and takes him by the shoulders.

“Ah, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t think, right, that at that age they are the most rational of creatures.”

The man looks up at him sharply, as if seeing him for the first time. “Who are you?”

Alfie drowns a bit in his eyes, don’t he, but recovers quickly enough.

“Alfie Solomons, mate. Legal guardian and human companion of Cyril there, who your son has taken quite the fancy to.”

“Daddy,” Charlie says, wriggling out of his grip and pointing at Cyril. “Wanna ride like Toby!”

“See?” Alfie says. “Highly irrational buggers.”

“No, that’s only with Uncle John’s dog, understand?” the father explains calmly before standing. “I’m sorry he disturbed you. He’s used to climbing all over the family dogs, and he thinks he can do it everywhere.”

Alfie hums. “Never said it was a disturbance now, did I?”

“Alright then,” he says, a bit exasperated. “Then thanks for watching him for a few moments, eh?”

As the father goes to steer Charlie back towards the children’s play area, Alfie, caught up by one of his strange notions, calls out.

“Awfully bad form, innit? Not introducing yourself when I heroically saved your child an’ all. Some people, right, some people might be deeply offended.”

The man rolls his eyes. “Tommy Shelby.”

Alfie leans back against the bench, smirking. “Wonderful to meet you, Thomas. Do lose your child again sometime, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one would have been longer, but it would have turned into a whole one-shot. Since that's not really the point of this, I held off. So, you know, maybe someday!


	29. Day 29 - Injured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 29 - Injured

“Bloody fuckin’ _fuck_,” Alfie howls, propped up against the barn’s wall with his face twisted in pain. “Fuckin’ nearly mauled me! You hear, Tom? _Mauled_.”

“Would you just—”

“Broken in three fuckin’ places. I can _feel_ it.” Alfie points accusingly at the stall door. “Fuckin’ devil in his eyes, mate. Saw it meself.”

“Alfie,” Tommy sighs from where he kneels in front of him. “If you’d let me check, I’ll see if we need to go to A & E, yeah?”

The look Alfie gives him is mutinous, steeped in a hefty dose of feeling betrayed. Tommy recognizes it immediately on account of being on the receiving end of it nightly, courtesy of his year-old son. (He glances over his shoulder to said year-old son, who is still content to gnaw on the key fob he’d been given in a rush to help Alfie).

“No, fuckin’ point, is there? They’ll have to cut the whole thing off. Lost my damn leg to a stupid, skittish beast. Christ.”

“Your _leg_?” Tommy resists rolling his eyes (a mighty feat) and starts on Alfie’s shoelaces.

“S’what I said, innit? Done in by a bloody _horse_. Of all fuckin’ things. Man of my stature, man in my line a work. And this is it? This is how it ends?”

Tommy pauses, arching his brow. “Done in? Really?”

He won’t dignify the look he receives from Alfie with a response, so he gets back to it. Carefully, Tommy slips the shoe off his foot and pulls off the sock. He’s seen his fair share of barn accidents in his thirty-odd years, and this is decidedly not…_that_.

“Can you move your toes?”

Alfie sighs, long suffering. “You are a trial to me, Thomas. A _trial_.”

“Move your fucking toes, eh?”

Alfie somehow—“By the grace of God himself, yeah? Divine intervention, that.”—manages it. As far as Tommy is concerned, all Alfie needs is some ice and paracetamol (maybe a blowjob later for good measure), but he can tell that this insufferable man (who he’s maybe in love with and is accidentally raising a child with) will not go for it.

“Alright, alright,” Tommy concedes. “We’ll go. Charlie, come along. We’re going in the car.”

He abandons Alfie briefly to gather up Charlie and reclaim the keys (covered in an amount of spit only a teething child can produce) before throwing his free arm around Alfie’s back to help him to the drive. The noises coming from Alfie feel a little too dramatic than the situation warrants, and Tommy can’t help but say as much as he struggles to hold onto a squirming child and grown man.

“The bloody _cheek_ of you,” Alfie grumbles. “That’s it. Stop by my solicitor’s office on the way. I’m removin’ you from my will. Out you go, entirely. Not a quid. I’m tryin’ to be reasonable, Thomas, but you’ve pushed me too far. You and those bloody beasts of yours.”

“The hell I fucking will,” Tommy mutters, pulling away from a spit-soaked hand on his ear. “I’ve earned every cent.”

And then some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alfie's been shot at least twice in Tommy's presence and has acted like it's no big deal. But when a horse is involved? All bets are off. 
> 
> High-key hated this prompt and had no ideas for days. I had to get something down to be able to move on, so this is my very not-serious, not-awesome take. I hope at the very least y'all were amused a bit.


	30. Day 30 - Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 30 - Catch

“So we’re settled here then?” Tommy asks him from across the desk.

Alfie leans back in his chair, fingers linking over his stomach, and nods. “Yeaaah, mate. Suppose we are.”

When Tommy shifts forward to get up, Alfie catches the first whiff of it. A moment later the scent hits his nose like a brick to the face, painful and seizing his attention. He’s a little surprised, isn’t he? But then again, a man like Tommy Shelby, well…nah, it makes perfect sense, don’t it? Still a single man can’t change the whole bloody world, much as he might like, so Alfie can hardly help himself.

“You, uh, headed back to Birmingham this evening?”

Tommy tugs at the lapels of his coat. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Alfie.”

“Oh no, no. Personally, I don’t really care now, do I? It’s only that, well,” Alfie pauses, narrowing his eyes and pointing at Tommy. “You’re going into heat.”

Tommy stares him down, entirely too stiff to come across as anything but defensive to Alfie’s careful assessment. Alfie can smell the rot of it on him; _panic_—always pungent and sour, but worse during heats.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Thomas,” Alfie starts, “it wounds me, right? That you would stand there, right there in that very spot in me own office, and _lie_ so poorly, yeah, so _fucking poorly_. And _then_, then believe that I wouldn’t call you on it. I am offended. Truly, I am. It offends me.”

“Fuck off,” Tommy says, voice low and dangerous.

“Tommy. _Tommy_, you can’t hide this shit, mate. I can smell it all over you.”

They stare one another down for several long moments before Tommy shakes his head.

“I’m in town until tomorrow morning,” he finally concedes.

Alfie spreads his arms wide. “See? That’s all I was askin’.”

“So…what?” Tommy frowns thoughtfully, shrugs. “You can invite yourself over to my suite, Mr. Solomons?”

“Nah, see, I am under no illusion, unlike most of my brethren, that an omega in heat will just fuck the first alpha who shows an interest. Which, you’ll have noticed, right, that I have _not_, in fact, shown any.”

“And if you had?” Tommy asks, eyebrow arched skeptically.

“Well, you have my number now, don’t you?”

“I do indeed.”

When Tommy says it, it’s utterly devoid of emotion, but there’s no anger there—which Alfie did, mind you, want to avoid if at all possible—so he considers this little exchange a small victory in his larger war to come to some sort of understanding with Tommy. What is abundantly clear, however, is that Tommy is _done_ with all this. Quite frankly, Alfie’d expected him to walk out a minute or two ago anyway, so it’s no great loss.

“Once last thing, yeah?” Alfie reaches for a scrap of paper, writes down an address, and offers it to Tommy. “That place, there. It’s safer than most. You mention my name, no one will even look at you the wrong way, alright?”

“I don’t need your protection, Alfie.”

“Never said you did.” Alfie leans back again, satisfied. “Never said you did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine this taking place during the episode where Alfie gives Tommy's men the run down on how things are going to be around Camden now that they're there.
> 
> Btw, T and A definitely don't hook-up this heat. Not even the next one or two, but look...Tommy's defenses lower eventually.


	31. Day 31 - Ripe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 31 - Ripe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic takes place late in my modern, always-a-girl!Tommy ‘verse. You don’t need to know anything about that to read this though.

Alfie leans against the doorframe, watching her flip through the contents of some file. It’s getting late, the sky all golden-pink and warming her pale, freckled skin. Tommi doesn’t notice him, just walks small circles next to her desk and shifts her weight from leg to leg.

While he’d had his reservations, there are perks to sharing an office space with her, particularly as she has a nose for trouble and a habit of not looking after herself. She cuts a stunning profile in a sleek black dress and those god-awful (but fucking _sexy_) shoes of hers, her hair a tangle of locks barely pinned back at this hour. He’d like to make a bigger mess of it, of _her_, but then he remembers the shoes and _she doesn’t look after herself_.

Carefully, he crosses her office to join her near the floor-to-ceiling windows. He winds himself around her, kissing her temple and inhaling the scent of her sweat and perfume. Other than baring her throat to him, there’s little to give him any indication that Tommi’s even picked up on his presence.

“S’late,” he says into her ear, nipping at her earlobe for good measure.

Tommi hums. “Very observant, Mr. Solomons.

“Ah, so you _did_ notice. And yet you’re still here, yeah? And wearing those heels.”

She says nothing, and after several long moments, Alfie realizes that she’s not _going_ to say anything to that.

_Fuckin’ typical_.

“Did you happen to get a notification on your mobile yesterday?” he asks, shifting tactics. “From the joint calendar?”

“Sounds familiar,” she answers, nose still shoved in the file. “Whatever it was, I snoozed it.”

Of course she fucking did. Tommi’s so used to getting her way at every turn that anything that might jeopardize said control gets swiftly denied, buried deep and unacknowledged. She’ll be the death of him on that count alone.

Sighing, Alfie takes out his mobile and pulls up the calendar in question. He slips it into her eyeline, blocking her view of the documents since she seems uninterested in directing her attention elsewhere.

The words _DUE DATE_—in all caps for Tommi’s benefit—are unmistakable.

“I know you’re doing all you bloody well can to ignore this,” he says, spreading his palm wide on her swollen belly. “But you have to accept that the baby might come before Thursday.”

Tommi finally looks at him, only to meet his gaze with a scowl.

“I’m not missing the Daniels meeting. I’ve spent far too much time to hand it over now.”

“I’m perfectly capable of negotiating, love. You may recall I was doing quite well before we started doing business together, yeah?”

“I’ll give birth in the fucking conference room if I have to.”

Alfie doesn’t doubt that, not in the slightest. He takes the folder from her hands and tosses it in the general direction of her desk. Before she protests too much, he pulls her along to the sofa in the corner and eases her down. She looks ready to murder him, and Alfie’s grateful that her handbag sits across the room.

Sitting on the other end, Alfie brings her feet to his lap and slips her shoes from her swollen feet. When he starts massaging her left arch, the response is immediate. The sigh and moan his hands elicit would put some of his better work between her thighs to shame. His pride might be a bit wounded if not for the fact that he’s managed to get her to relax for a moment; nothing matters so much as that just now.

“Nothing I say is going to keep you at home, is it?”

Tommi lifts her head up from the throw cushion. “You want me barefoot and pregnant at the flat, eh?”

Considering she wears eleven-centimeter heels and is twenty-four hours past her due date, yeah, he fucking _does_. Which, considering he’s let her run rough shod over everything since she pissed on that stick and decided to keep it, Alfie thinks isn’t such a big ask. And yet Tommi’s stubborn look tells him everything he needs to know. It’ll be compromise or nothing.

“Right then,” he sighs. “If I catch you here in those fuckin’ shoes tomorrow, I’ll be forced to take drastic measures. Flats only until the baby comes.”

Her head drops back to the cushion, and she smirks. “Yeah, we’ll see, won’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s that, folks. This Inktober series is officially finished off. 31/31 prompts fulfilled! It only took about six extra months and a pandemic to make it happen.
> 
> My thanks to those of you who have stuck with me as this became a months-long endeavor and transformed into something I initially never intended it to be. I appreciate all the love this series of mostly unrelated, random-ass ficlets has received since October 2019. Every comment and kudos has meant the world. I had a lot of fun trying out some ideas, inverting tropes, and creating things that will some day be proper standalone fics (I hope).


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